On the Subject of Angels, Prophets and Caffeine
by kettleoat
Summary: Chuck is having a bad day. Castiel is not helping.


Chuck was not having a good day. In fact, his day had been, perhaps, the opposite of what one would call 'good'. On a scale of 1 - 10 on how good the 24-hour cycle had been, Chuck thought that his day would score a strong three. Since 2 o'clock that morning, he had managed to intake nine cups of coffee (he had run out of milk after the third and had resorted to taking it black), eaten three Power-and-Go cereal bars (one of which was stale), and slept, in all, for thirty-six minutes. As Chuck sat with his laptop open in front of him, trying desperately to think of something to write which would not involve the Winchesters self-combusting, imploding or losing their souls to a mysterious supernatural being, he thought that it would be difficult for anything to happen that would make his day any worse than it had already been.

Until, of course, an Angel of the Lord appeared in his living room.

"Prophet," Castiel greeted him formally, seemingly oblivious to the fact that it was considered rude in some societies to appear out of thin air in someone else's home.

"I - what - it's, uh, nice to see you..." Chuck said whilst trying to mop up the tenth cup of coffee which he had spilt onto his lap.

"I have news," the angel said gravely.

"Yay," Chuck muttered.

"I do not believe this is cause for celebration."

Chuck stopped trying to wipe the coffee off his trousers and looked up wearily at Castiel. "You should really try to work on your social skills."

The angel tilted his head to one side, the disconcertingly blue eyes narrowing in a characteristic gesture.

"Why?"

Chuck sat in the middle of his living room and tried to think of how to explain social skills to an angel - an angel, furthermore, whom he had personally seen explode in his own house, and whose shredded organs he had had to later pick out of his hair.

"Look, Cas -"

" - tiel," the angel finished.

"I'm sorry?"

"My name is Cas_tiel_. It means 'of God'. Although I continue to allow this minor slip with the Winchesters, as they do not seem to be able to remember that I am still an angel and therefore still beneath God, I would have thought that you, a Prophet, would use my full - and correct - name."

He continued to stare at Chuck with those piercing eyes once he had finished his speech, seemingly unaware that the man he was addressing had leaned his head against the chair he had been sitting in and was massaging his temples.

"What is your news?" the Prophet asked, his voice slightly muffled in the fabric of the armchair.

"Sam and Dean have a message for you. Or, more precisely, Dean has a message for you."

Chuck groaned. "How long is it?"

"Do you wish to know that in words or char -"

"Words," Chuck interrupted, still pressing his face into the chair.

The angel paused, apparently thinking. After a moment he said, "Thirty-six."

"And how many swearwords has he used?"

Another pause. Then: "Sixteen."

Chuck moaned and rolled onto the floor, his eyes shut tight as though he could block out the angel standing with his arms hanging by his sides who, he presumed, was still staring at him with those goddamn eyes.

He peeled apart his eyelids with great effort and swivelled his eyeballs to look at Castiel.

Yep.

"Don't do that thing," he said in a long-suffering voice, rolling onto his front and breathing in the musty smell of the carpet that hadn't seen a vacuum cleaner for three months.

"I'm afraid you will have to elaborate, Prophet."

And then there was that god-awful voice. It should be illegal to have a voice that deep and growly and - Chuck searched desperately for a word that was not 'masculine' - _husky_. He, Chuck, used to think - quite proudly, to tell the truth - that he had a rather deep voice himself. When he met Sam and Dean, his feelings were shattered, and now it was as though the angel was rubbing it in. Him with his stupid voice and his stupid eyes and his stupid trench-coat.

"You with your stupid voice and your stupid eyes and your stupid trench-coat," he said into the floor.

There was another pause.

"Are you intoxicated, Prophet?"

"_No_," Chuck said loudly and heaved himself to his feet, turning to glare at the angel. He turned away quickly when he was met with the sight of Castiel's burning eyes, but he thought for a few brief seconds that, had he been faced with anyone other than an Angel of the Lord, they would have quailed beneath his cold and majestic stare.

Determined to think of something to say which would disarm the angel, he blurted, "And your clothes don't even fit you."

Castiel lowered his head slowly to gaze down at his attire. Encouraged by this, Chuck continued, "Your trench-coat must be at least three sizes too big, and that tie isn't even done up properly."

He folded his arms impressively, waiting for Castiel's reaction.

"Technically, this is an overcoat."

Chuck wilted.

"And of course you know," the angel added, as though as an afterthought, "that this is not my true form, and that this is merely a vessel's body that I, so far, have had no influence over in choice of clothing. I believe this explains your second and third points. I would offer you the opportunity to take it up with Jimmy, but -"

"No," Chuck said quickly, "no, it's alright."

Castiel tilted his head again. Chuck tried to copy the gesture and felt something in his neck click.

"You seem to feel very strongly about this, Prophet," the angel said, still watching as Chuck massaged his neck, wincing.

"It's a - human thing," he invented randomly. "Being an angel, you - you wouldn't understand."

Castiel tipped his head back slightly - what was it with this guy and head tilting? - and _narrowed his goddamn eyes again god damn it._

"I see," he said eventually.

"Yep," Chuck said, trying to adopt a casual manner by plastering a painfully false smirk on his face and half-closing his eyes.

"Is there something wrong with your face, Prophet?"

Chuck dropped the casual manner at once.

"Would you like to hear Dean's message?"

Raising his eyebrows at the sudden change of subject, Chuck dropped back into his chair and rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Can you - ah - _translate_ it?" he asked tentatively.

"If you mean removing the swearwords, I believe I can explain the idea behind the message."

Chuck sighed. "Go on, then."

"'Tell that damn Prophet that if he publishes any more of those books we will personally tear his lungs out'," Castiel recited immediately.

Chuck groaned again. "They already told me that,' he whined. "And I thought you were going to censor all the swearwords."

"I do not believe 'damn' counts as a swearword."

"Yes it does."

"I'm not going to argue with you, Prophet."

Chuck glared at him. "You're stupid."

Castiel - Chuck was going to have to think of a better word than 'tilted' - _bent_ his head to one side. There was a soft fluttering sound, and Chuck was left blinking at his empty living room.

After a moment's pause, the Prophet of the Lord dragged himself to his feet and made his slow way across the room and into the kitchen.

It was time for his eleventh cup of coffee.

**You'll have to decide for yourself why Chuck was having a bad day. Being a Prophet must kinda suck.**


End file.
